telling,” said the clerk. “No telling at all, now that you’re here.”
“You mean I should have stayed away?”
“Should have learned how to shoot before you came.”
“Is there a gunsmith in Gila Bend?”
“No. But there’s a general store down the street a piece from the bank. Ed Harrison sells most everything. Besides, a man looks better wearing a gun. If he’s got the shape for it, I mean. Looks better when he’s riding a horse, too.”
“Good advice,” said Latigo. “I’m obliged to you.”
The clerk’s face brightened. “You figuring on wearing guns?”
“Wouldn’t want to be thought a fool, mister.”
“Mallow’s the name . . . John Mallow.”
At the door Latigo looked back. “Why’d you tell me?”
The land clerk shrugged. “Hate to see a young fellow get hurt, that’s all,” he said. “Honest advice doesn’t cost anything. I’m just a land clerk. Maybe that’s all I can give.”
“It’s more than you think.”
The sheriff’s office was stone and brick built with iron bars across the windows. The door lay open because of the heat. Inside the building was shaded. Latigo entered and the sheriff straightened. “Day, Sheriff. . .”
The lawman nodded shortly. “What can I do for you?”
“Like to talk some.”
“Busy right now. Got a lot of work to do. If I was you, mister, I’d keep on riding. This town’s open at both ends.”
“Rode a long way to get here, Sheriff. Gila Bend is the end of my journey.”
The other man’s eyebrows went up. “What’re you talking about?”
“I figured on staying, Sheriff,” Latigo announced. “Soon as I get a gun to wear.”
Impatience edged the sheriff’s voice. He was a big man, had once been strong. “Look, mister,” he said. “We don’t like smart-talking strangers around here. If you’ve got something to say, you say it then start riding.”
“Not a stranger, Sheriff,” said Latigo. “And I don’t figure on doing much more riding. I was born here, belong here.”
The lawman stared hard at him, from forehead to boots and back again. Recognition did not light his face. “Never saw you before,” he said. “Been here nine years, know everybody in these parts.”
“The name’s Lansen, Sheriff.”
The sheriff’s shoulders stiffened. Latigo held out the land deed so that it could be read without being touched. The lawman’s eyes moved down the paper and halted at the name of the owner. He looked up slowly. “You were supposed to be dead,” he said.
Latigo put the paper away. “Lots of men died at Vicksburg,” he said. “Land office is satisfied I’m not one of them.”
The man with the badge on his shirtfront sat back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “The paper says you’re Latimer Lansen. What do you want from me?”
“Protection.”
“From what?”
“Don’t know, Sheriff. Plan to work my land and raise cattle. Want the law on my side, that’s all.”
“The sheriff’s on the side of every law-abiding citizen in the county, mister.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, Sheriff,” said Latigo and walked to the door, glad of sunlight.
The sheriff was alone. He stared at the green-shaded oil lamp on the desk, pushed a gun into holster and rose. He walked straight to the Land Office. “Young fellow in here a while ago, name of Lansen. . .”
“That’s right, Sheriff. Confirming ownership of the Lansen ranch.”
“Was it in order?”
“Surest thing you know, Sheriff. Nobody owns that land but that young man. Sort of figure he’s going to keep on owning it, too.”
“Was it notarised?”
“All down in black and white. Signed by a judge. The land is his, Sheriff. River land . . .”
John Mallow watched the sheriff out of the office, stayed watching the door even when the man with the badge had gone. When he had pushed the book back into its place on the shelf he stood at the small window and watched Latigo Lansen walk his horse slowly along by the river, moving south. Shadows and hazing outlines warned that night had begun to claim the sky. He reckoned that the flat-waisted man on the horse would bed down somewhere for the night and ride to the ranch first thing in the morning. He’d want to see it in the early light. After ten years, morning was the best time.
Latigo laid a trail over the range and reined when he came in sight of the house. His throat tightened. The gelding stretched the rein to nibble at grass, sniffed air and smelled water. He was alone on the sloping land with the sun in the east and shadow reaching away from him. This was the time for crying out and he remained silent.
Smoke hadn’t risen from the chimney in eight years and that was a long time for a house to be without a fire. A house is not a home until logs are burning on the hearth and feet walking on board floors, until windows shine and the door stays open.
A windbreak of alder and larch rose behind the house and hid the bunkhouse. Five men used to sleep there. Out in front of the house stood the water butt and pump. Two hundred yards farther on the river ran sheathed with sunlight. From the house you could see clear down to the water, not a bush or a tree in the way.
Apache Indians had ridden across this land after buffalo or in the pursuit of war, with painted skins, wearing feathers and wielding lances and the air still echoed to the sound of their cries, the beat of drums and the music of thin reed pipes that made big medicine and was magic. Blood had been spilt and the last Apache lance to pierce the earth only ten yards from the front of the house still stood in a circle of whitened stones, the feathers shrivelled but the lance itself a lonely and barbaric reminder of wind and war on grassy plains and of history in the making.
Latigo looked away. It is only when there are people present to make a welcome of human sound that a man feels like crying out. When he is alone the urge is gone and and he should have known this.
The windows were dusty and the pine log door creaked when he let in the light. His shadow rushed ahead of him into the house. There were no ghosts to rear up at him and he was glad. Jeremiah Lansen had not even died in the house and the memories contained within the four walls were living thoughts.
The gelding came to the open door and kept an eye on him, watching his movements, listening for the sounds he made, being curious and puzzled when he was silent.
The doors and windows he opened wide. The bedding he burned in a smoky bonfire that sent a yellow-black coil into
